


The Beast of Karakura

by MaethoMixup



Category: Bleach
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Magic, Eventual Smut, Grimmjow is a Farmer, M/M, OR IS HE, Romance, Scenting, Soulmates, Werewolves, all smut is human/human, there's a lot of plot for something that was meant to be a smutty one-shot oops
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 05:55:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25249522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MaethoMixup/pseuds/MaethoMixup
Summary: There's a werewolf in the valley, just a thirty minute walk from Grimmjow's front porch.And then it's in his toolshed.Then his house, sleeping beside the fireplace like Grimmjow won't take his sword and stab it through its cursed, wicked heart. Like it's safe with a man who once slaughtered its kind.
Relationships: Grimmjow Jaegerjaques/Kurosaki Ichigo
Comments: 9
Kudos: 82





	The Beast of Karakura

**Author's Note:**

> I'm putting my gardening knowledge to good use again, but this time with werewolves!
> 
> Big thank you to my other half and a true menace to society, [sayhitoforever](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sayhitoforever/pseuds/sayhitoforever), who motivated me to write this. The next chapter is already done (outside of editing) because this scene was split off from it, so woo!
> 
> To join the Grimmichi Discord, [click here](https://discord.gg/7svSdUx)!

There's a werewolf in the valley, just a thirty minute walk from Grimmjow's front porch. Last night it ate a cow from the Yasutora farm and the nauseating stench of dark magic permeates the air, rotting the grass closest to their shared property line. 

It'll take a bag full of starter and a preacher to revitalize the land. Grimmjow isn't looking forward to the cost.

"Sado is positively distraught," Urahara informs him, hip tucked against the fence between them, a crate of eggs balanced precariously on the wood slats. "You know how he is about his animals. Inherited it from his grandfather."

"I don't talk to Sado," he huffs from his position on the ground, knees sinking into the dirt. Weeds invaded his strawberry patch after last week's storm felled a tree into his tool shed. Between roof repairs, livestock care, general watering, and unfortunate personal necessities like sleep, his field became overrun. Only his peppers remain unscathed, and now there's a cursed pasture to deal with. Either it's karmic retribution or bad luck has seeped into the soil. It would explain why this place sold under market value despite the sizable annual profit.

The verge here is more narrow than further down the perimeter. Urahara presses in closer, crate wobbling, every time a horse trots by, their rider rubbernecking to get an eyeful of the blackened area and the coop that rests too close. He's Karakura's only poultry farm. Urahara, too fucking noisy like all his customers, only cares that the chickens are safe. It's the reason he's here, buying eggs outside his normal delivery schedule. His crops have won at the county fair two years in a row, but this deep into the countryside only the shopkeepers lack a vegetable garden, and Urahara buys from elsewhere. The sack hanging from his shoulder is already filled with produce. 

His wide brim hat hides the peculiar look Urahara gives him, but Grimmjow has experienced it enough times to know the feel of it. "You should be more friendly with your neighbors. We're a community."

"I'm friendly with Jinta."

"He's hired help, I hardly think that counts."

Grimmjow sighs, stabbing his trowel under a cluster of bittercress to loosen the roots and pulls, tossing it into the wheelbarrow. It's nearly overflowing after only an hour of work; he'll have to roll it to his compost pile soon.

"Don't be fucking picky," he grumbles, clearing his immediate vicinity before dusting his gloves off and standing. He points at the crate. "You buying more or are you just wasting my time?"

Urahara hoists it off the fence, cradling it almost protectively. "If warning you about a werewolf is a waste of your time, then yes, I suppose that's what I was doing." He sniffs, offended, and it's a load of bullcrap. He's only a good samaritan when he's angling for a price reduction, and he regularly asks for a loyal customer discount as if there's an advantage to giving him one. He has no choice but to pay the asking price, the townsfolk would riot if their only grocery stopped selling eggs.

Grimmjow hopes his glare is severe enough to cure him of his cheapskate ways once and for all, as doubtful as it is.

"Fine, have it your way," Urahara finally says, and glances towards the rest of his crops, focusing on the lopsided tomato vines. They're in dire need of a prune. "I'm sure you know this," he begins slowly, and Grimmjow pauses, one hand steadying the weeds from spilling over the tray. "But there are quicker ways to control overgrowth."

Frozen, Grimmjow doesn't move a muscle. Not a single twitch to betray his knowledge. 

Magic is forbidden, punishable by death. Surely he can't be alluding to a spell Grimmjow is intimately familiar with. He can't be. Urahara can't know he's a mage, a criminal. He's taken every precaution to hide it. 

"What do you recommend?" he asks, as equally slow and steady. Only another mage would be able to recognize the subtle tricks Grimmjow had allowed himself to use, and no one is stranger in Karakura than Urahara and his elusive wife. There would be little surprise if they revealed such a secret.

He still might need to kill them, depending on where their loyalties lie. The Capital has spies stationed throughout the country, and the church is hardly more accepting of rogue mages, especially ones with a bounty on their head.

"Me? Well," Urahara drags out the word, caroling it dramatically high, pausing at the tailend to twist his smirk into a smile, "perhaps a dutch hoe? Sado swears by them, which you would know if you were the friendly sort."

Grimmjow snarls a curse, pushing the wheelbarrow off its back leg. "I don't need friends with shitty opinions. A push-pull is more effective."

"I'll be sure to tell him that," he says, hefting his goods more securely into his arms. "And do try to be safe! This werewolf is more dangerous than his ilk!"

"Good! Go get eaten!" Grimmjow shouts over his shoulder instead of goodbye, because fuck him and fuck the implications too, even if they were accidental. The fear of being found and caught dwindled each passing season since settling here, and now it's back, hooking into his chest and reeling him back into old fight or flight instincts that have no place in peaceful Karakura.

Or, as peaceful as it was. With a werewolf on the loose and his grass infected, the local chapel will be up his ass until the creature's hide decorates their halls. If there's anything they hate worse than an unsided mage, it's a cursed one.

"I'm serious, Grimmjow! Heed my warnings!"

He doesn't respond. Lets the older man walk away annoyed, doubts lingering in each step he takes down the dirt road. It's what he deserves.

Grimmjow knows werewolves, slaughtered them in the name of the kingdom and will fight more if they threaten his livelihood, but he won't join the hunting party forming at the town square. With only the preacher's son to lead the mob, they are nothing more than lambs marching into the butcher's home, overeager and looking for glory they won't find. They're too weak, ignorant to the ways of beasts, and this creature is a  _ prize _ . A goddamn gift sent from their Holy One directly to Grimmjow.

A werewolf who turns from human to monster without the full moon, it's unheard of. It's a challenge, one Grimmjow plans to overcome if given the opportunity, but he cannot use magic outside the boundaries of his home without alerting the authorities, and it's taken too many years already to establish himself here. Uprooting his life for one good fight is a fool's choice he's not looking to make twice.

He overturns the wheelbarrow into the growing pile and rights it, using a pitchfork to stir the dregs. It's another month away from being used as fertilizer, just in time to restore the pasture.

Idly, he wonders if killing a dark creature cures the land of its rot. In the army, he had never stuck around long enough to know, assigned to new districts as soon as the threat was defeated. It would be favorable to his wallet if that were true.

His pitchfork slips from the compost easily, and he runs a clothed fingertip down one edge, not sharp enough to find skin. He'll have to excavate his sword from its hiding spot beside the well if he's to have any hope of winning this battle.

If it returns, he reminds himself, but the rot bubbling from his farm into Sado's, trailing into the treeline, gives Grimmjow the sense that the creature had been following a scent trail, becoming unwillingly sidetracked by its own hunger and the sight of a sleeping cow. The pathing is too similar to military hounds leading soldiers to prey.

Werewolves on the full moon are more chaotic, fueled by the poison of moonlust. They zigzag, jumping from one lit patch to the next, crazed and barbaric and dangerous in every way that a man cannot be without their intelligence ripped from them.

Grimmjow wanders closer, steel-toed boots nearly touching the boundary of the curse. It's dark tendrils slither for a taste of his magic and shrieks each swipe it takes without making contact. He's taunting it, the edge of danger pumping long forgotten adrenaline into his chest, his lungs. His head, becoming dizzy with excitement; his sword has gone unbloodied for too long, and finally —  _ finally  _ — a worthy opponent has arrived.

This creature hasn't lost its intelligence, not completely. 

He steps away and grabs a larger shovel off his porch. His crops will have to wait, there's a battlefield to prepare.


End file.
